


You're Breaking Up

by Dayja



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen, Hostage Situation, The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayja/pseuds/Dayja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jim leaves his number under the dish, Sherlock doesn't tell Molly. He calls. Perhaps John's lessons in kindness weren't such a good idea after all.  NOT Sherlock/Molly.  NOT Sherlock/Jim.  Though there is a bit of one-sided creepiness going on there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Spoilers for season 1 of Sherlock, particularly the Great Game, possible violence and Jim being creepy (undertones of non-con and murder).
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own/am not associated with/make no money from Sherlock.

1.

His first instinct was to tell Molly her new boyfriend was gay.  Honestly, for someone who had such sharp eyes in the morgue she could be ridiculously blind to the living and Sherlock was always having to point things out for her.  He didn’t really mind; it was part of the reciprocal relationships thing, after all, that Mycroft had drummed into his head since youth and the benefits she offered in return were worth it, but it could be tiresome to always have to say the obvious.  Telling her then and there would be quick and efficient and then he could return all his focus to his fascinating new psychopath  playmate.

Except then there was John.  John was a doctor and ought to have appreciated the surgical brilliance of nipping something in the bud but somehow didn’t.  He was always giving addendums to Mycroft’s reciprocal relationship rules and insisted that telling someone bluntly to their face that a loved one was not who they thought was cruel and unnecessary.  There had been words on the subject just the day before and even Sherlock’s pointing out that it was better they knew didn’t sway John.  Molly in tears he could handle; Molly in tears and a disapproving John which would lead to John sulking while Sherlock refused to talk to him and which in turn would ruin a truly brilliant chase was not acceptable.

In the end he said nothing.  John still had a look which was annoying because it meant Sherlock was missing something yet again but John didn’t say anything either, so that was alright.  Sherlock pocketed the number and promptly forgot about it.  The chase was on.

2.

John found it later when he was making yet another random attempt at cleaning up the flat during a lull in the explosions.  He was being a bit of a distraction, in fact, while Sherlock lay on the sofa and let the facts swirl into patterns and paths, but Sherlock didn’t call him on it because he supposed it was John’s way of feeling reciprocal in the chase when he couldn’t tackle people or shoot his gun.  He was a bit more than a distraction, however, when he purposefully broke into Sherlock’s trance and waved a bit of paper in his face.

“What’s this?”

Sherlock stared at it incomprehensibly for a moment as the patterns trying to align themselves broke away into meaningless data.  Before he could get properly annoyed with John, however, the number dangling in his face caught his attention and his derailed thoughts immediately jumped onto another track.

“Oh yes,” he said, snatching the number out of his hand, “John, phone.”  To which John grumbled for appearances when they both knew that John liked to be used because that meant he was useful.  A few seconds later, Sherlock’s phone was in his hands.  He almost protested to use John’s instead just on instinct when he remembered he meant to be himself this time anyway.  He called the number.

“Hello Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.  Meet me in one hour at that place on the corner, the one with the scones.”  There, he thought after he hung up, that would be settled then, unless Moriarty called between now and then, in which case Jim certainly deserved to be stood up.

“Jim?” John asked, giving him a completely baffled look, “Who’s Jim?”

“Molly’s boyfriend, unless you know of another Jim we’ve spoken to recently.  He slipped me his number when he introduced himself.”  John had that indecipherable look again, the one that said Sherlock was missing something basic.  Sherlock hated that look.  “You’re mad at me again.  Why?”

“Why are you meeting Molly’s boyfriend?”  Ah, that look becomes clearer, and twice as annoying.  Why did John have to be so dull?

“Obviously for a secret tryst.  Honestly, John, you’re better than this.  Why do you think I’m meeting with him?”  Now John has that adorably hesitant look he gets when Sherlock forces him to make his own deductions.

“You’re going to warn him off?”  It’s only half a question so Sherlock doesn’t bother answering, tossing him the phone instead.  John catches it, of course, despite the familiar ‘stop throwing around expensive objects’ look that follows.  As if he’d throw something without being sure John would catch it.

“Tell Mycroft to run a background check on Jim; we’re due a favor what with that ridiculous case he has you on.”

“You expect he’ll find something?”  John asks, sounding intrigued as he starts to dial.

“Of course not; Jim’s no one.  But it will drive my brother crazy trying to find something and I haven’t the space at the moment to run off on wild tangents.  Busy.  Thinking.  Remind me in half an hour to go deal with Jim.”

“Half an hour?  Won’t it take you longer than that to get there?”  Dull again, obvious.  Sherlock doesn’t bother to answer, letting his thoughts return to the swirl of data and patterns of the chase.  He barely hears when John finally finishes dialing and does what Sherlock had asked.

3.

Sherlock arrives late, of course, but Jim is still waiting.  His clothes tell a story of a quick change with no time to smooth out all the wrinkles and the tie isn’t his; stolen out of the locker room most likely.  The look in his eyes is fevered, part nerves part awe and something else Sherlock can’t quite identify.  John probably could but Sherlock had left him at home; this was hardly a situation Sherlock would need help with even if John had offered…something about cleaning his gun.  As if he could clean his gun out in public in the middle of a crowded café even if most people were idiots when it came to observation.  John could be odd at times.

“Sherlock Holmes…” Jim was hesitant and hopeful in one, jumping up but not going so far as to pull his chair out for him.  Jim had chosen a table right in the middle of the room and Sherlock’s chair put him with his back to the door.  The reflection off a nearby counter helped but it still put him on edge.  He sat anyway.

“Jim from IT…Molly’s boyfriend,” Sherlock answered by way of greeting, and Jim’s nervous grin faltered for a moment.  Sherlock’s smile was full of teeth as he glanced at the menu.  “Shall we order some coffee?”

“I’ve ordered,” Jim answered, his attempt at charm ruined by the way his voice squeaked, but the timing still fell absolutely perfect when a waiter arrived with two coffees and a plate of scones.  Sherlock found himself impressed in spite of himself, particularly as the coffee was just as he liked it.  Less impressive when he knew the source of his information; Molly was always plying drinks on him in the morgue.

“It is how you like it, isn’t it?” Jim asked, after Sherlock had let the silence go on for just a tad bit too long.  Sherlock ignored the question, taking a long sip.  Then he set it down and leaned in towards the other man.

“You’re going to call Molly.  Right now.”

The expression faltered again, before returning incomprehensively back to nervous interest.

“You want me to break it off with her?  Of course.  I understand.”

“Do you?”  He wasn’t reacting how Sherlock expected.  He had his phone out and his free hand reached out to boldly cover his.  Sherlock jerked away, momentarily wrong footed until he realized his mistake.  Jim thought he wanted to break them up so they could be together without guilt.  Idiot.  Still.  Something felt wrong.  He shook it off, concentrating on how he wanted this to go.  Jim was already dialing.  “Wait.  You will tell her you’re sorry.  Tell her she deserves a million times better.”

Something like amusement flashes across Jim’s face before it settles into something incomprehensible.  “Anything you say, sweetheart.  Just give me the words, and I’ll be your voice.  Oh…it’s riiingiiing.”

A flutter of unease flitted through Sherlock’s chest but he ignored it.  Jim was a loathsome parasite who didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘reciprocal’ when it came to using people but he was just a bottom feeder.  Harmless, once you were on to him.

“Molly, darling!”  Sherlock could hear the exciting squeal that answered all the way from across the table.  Jim shot him a pained expression, holding the phone slightly away from his ear.  Covering the receiver, he leans over and stage whispers, “She says ‘hello’” and actually giggles.  As if this were a game.  Very well; Sherlock was ready to play.  Perhaps this Jim would turn out a more interesting diversion than he had thought.

 “Tell her that you, Jim, are pond scum.  You are a parasite, a worm, a worthless amoeba, a bottom feeder.  And because she deserves so much better, because she is worth everything and you nothing, you are going to dis-attach your suckers and leave.”

Jim giggles again before artfully forcing his face into a contrite expression.  He speaks into the phone, his voice ringing with all the sincerity of a Shakespearean dramatization.

“I, Jim, am pond scum.  I’m a parasite, a worm, a worthless amoeba, a bottom feeder.  You, my dearest Molly, deserve the world.  And because you are worth everything and I, I am nothing, I’m afraid I must take my leave of you.  Terribly sorry.  It was fun while it lasted.”  He hangs up and Sherlock frowns.  He was almost certain that John wouldn’t be appreciative of the direction this has taken, but then, there was no way this could happen without Molly being hurt and now it was done.  That didn’t explain why he felt a bit slimy, looking into Jim’s honest, interested expression.

“There,” Jim says, putting the phone away, “Done.  Now…where were we?”

“We were just discussing your worthlessness.”

Surely he didn’t still think he had a chance with Sherlock?  People really could be idiots.

“You are going to stay away from Molly and you are going to stay away from me.  I think we are finished here.”

“So soon?  Why, dear, you haven’t finished your coffee!”  He was overdramatizing now; ridiculous.  Sherlock’s phone buzzed; he had a text.  He glanced at it long enough to see Mycroft’s name before deciding to ignore it.  “The great Sherlock Holmes…Molly has told me so much.  All good things, I promise.”

“While you used her,” Sherlock pointed out idly, not quite making up his mind to just leave.  He wanted to be sure this was finished first; that this annoying man wouldn’t be intruding in the future.  His phone buzzed again.  John this time.  He ignored that one too.

“Why are you so hung up on that?” Jim demanded, peering at him searchingly, “Do you fancy her?”  Sherlock almost choked on his swallow of coffee.

“Hardly.  She’s my…my…she’s mine.  And I take care of what’s mine.”

“Don’t we all.  And there’s no chance of me…becoming yours?  I like to think of you as mine.”  Sherlock leaned closer, intimate, threatening.

“Not a chance.”  A phone chirped; Jim’s this time.  He sighed, then took it out to look at it.  Then Sherlock’s phone was buzzing in his pocket; a call this time.  Oh, honestly.  Well, he was done here anyway.

“I’m leaving now, busy.  Thank you for the coffee.  We won’t be seeing each other again.”  For someone who had seemed so keen before, Jim barely acknowledged him, waving one hand in goodbye while he texted with the other.  Still feeling wrong footed and unsure why, Sherlock started towards the door, pulling his phone out as he went.  Which is the exact moment the street outside exploded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Spoilers for season 1 of Sherlock, particularly the Great Game, possible violence and Jim being creepy.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own/am not associated with/make no money from Sherlock.

4.

There was a moment between walking towards the door and lying on the floor.  He couldn’t see that moment.  It was disconcerting, like waking up from a faint, except he was mostly certain he had never actually lost consciousness.

He was walking and then he was lying down and his ears were ringing and he smelled smoke and dust and blood and he absolutely did not know what had happened.  He always knew what had happened, usually before it did.  This was wrong.  Data, he needed data.  He opened his eyes.

The world was too sharp, the sudden influx of information disarming.  The windows were blown out, the remaining frame of the door barely clinging to its hinges.  There were people, panicked people screaming, probably quite loudly if he could hear properly, but they sounded so far away as to be inconsequential.  They didn’t seem to know what to do, where to run.  Some had the intelligence to duck under the tables, some were running for the back of the restaurant.  No one seemed willing to risk the front door.  Some were still sitting, shocked.  Some were lying.  Knocked over.  Bleeding.

People.  There was something important about people.  Vibrations.  From his hand.  His phone, still clutched tightly through everything.  He had messages.

- _Sherlock_ 3:45:06

- _Get out_ 3:44:32

-missed call, voicemail 3:42:55 __

- _Shserloc, Jim not sfe Myc sys leav sndingpepole._ 3:42:14 __

- _Red flags on Jim.  Well hidden.  Sending people to apprehend.  Do NOT approach._ 3:40:39

And then, at last, the world reasserted itself crystal clear and he was pulling himself up, noting blood on his hands, didn’t hurt, from the broken glass, probably not serious.  He turned around slowly, his balance still off.  Jim was sitting at the table.

His eyes were alight with interest and glee, his head swiveling to take in the chaos and destruction.  The people cowering or running or frozen.  The people bleeding.  Maybe dead.  Then those eyes fell upon Sherlock.  The face twisted, taking on a mask of surprise and horror.

“Oh dear!  There seems to have been an explosion!”

Sound was returning, slowly, seeping into the world and making it more real, less remote.  Screaming, sobbing.  He approached the table, not turning to see, his eyes on Jim.  Jim who wasn’t Jim.  How could he have been so stupid? How could he have missed this?  He saw everything, now, crystal clear.  Slowly, deliberately, he sat back in his seat.  There was still coffee and scones in front of him.  The coffee was still warm, probably still good if he ignored the tiny bits of debris floating in it.  If he ignored the man across from it, still looking at him with a parody of shock written across his face.

“Moriarty.”

The man held his shocked mask for one second longer before it melted away into glee.

“Sherlock Holmes.  Do try the scones.  I got them especially for you.”  The implicit threat of poison was obvious, but it was equally obvious there would be none.  Sherlock forced his features to remain calm as he called the bluff, reaching across the table to take a scone.  He dusted it off first, wary of glass, before taking a bite.  Moriarty across the table watched him eat, lips twitching in anticipation and glee.

He forced himself to taste the scone, to savor it.  Somehow, the slight, very slight dread that he could be wrong, missed something more, made yet another mistake and was now dead, somehow this anticipation heightened the taste beyond anything he had ever tasted.  This was chess, life or death, endgame.

It was also nothing like what he had planned for.  Nothing was on his own terms here, for all he had chosen the place.  He didn’t have John’s gun, he didn’t even have John.  On the other hand, Moriarty couldn’t have had much time to prepare either, and he possibly didn’t have all the facts, didn’t know the fullness of Sherlock’s connections.  Or did he?  Shouldn’t someone have made a move by now?  They had to have a clear shot. The building itself was insecure, Moriarty an easy target through the various blown out windows, but he was still sitting, calm, unharmed.  What was his brother waiting for?  Unless…oh, of course.  Brilliant.

“Is your sniper going to shoot me, Moriarty?”  Moriarty’s smile widened.

“It’s so _cute_ , seeing you trying to puzzle it all out.  And I was so hoping we’d have longer to play.  I didn’t even get to use all the pips.  Now really, it’s cheating!”  And suddenly he wasn’t gleeful at all, his fist pounding on the table, his voice carrying outwards, “I call **interference**!”

“I didn’t call them here.”  It was unnerving, the way he went from happy to angry so fast.  Fascinating.  But unnerving.  Unreadable.  Unpredictable.  In his deepest, most hidden of thoughts, he admitted that he was afraid.  He refused to let it show.

“And you were so close to walking out the door.  It was going to be so much fun when we came to the final puzzle.  I so wanted to see your face, you and the puppy, when you realized you had me…you _had_ me, and let me go.  And you RUINED IT.”  He was shouting outwards again.  To Mycroft?  Did it matter?

“Oh, Moriarty.  Don’t blame them for your mistakes.”  The head turned, a murderous look in his eyes and Sherlock had to force himself not to shrink away, to stay still.  Then, suddenly, the look was gone, replaced by manic glee.

“I can see why you picked this place for our date.”  He scooped up a scone, fingers swiping it lightly for dust before slowly enveloping it in his mouth.  He was giving Sherlock a look under his eyelashes that somehow made him more uncomfortable than the look of murderous rage.  He even licked his fingers.  “But my dear, it seems your coffee has gone cold.  Oh, waitress!  Waitress?  Such shoddy service.  Now where did the waitress go?  Perhaps, for our next date, I should choose the location.”

All the serving staff was long gone, of course.  Most of the people had recovered enough to find their way out; even the people who had been insensible and bleeding on the floor had been taken.  It was almost too efficient.  Some of the café patrons had to have been Moriarty’s people.

“Will there be another ‘date’?” Sherlock asked, ignoring Moriarty’s over-enthused acting and trying to look like his heart wasn’t racing.  He honestly couldn’t see the end of this; he had no idea what Moriarty intended to do.  It was thrilling but also horrifying.  It was wrong.

Moriarty leaned across the table, a fleck of cream in the corner of his mouth.  “Oh, my dear, that really does depend.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Spoilers for season 1 of Sherlock, particularly the Great Game, possible violence and Jim being creepy.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own/am not associated with/make no money from Sherlock.

5.

“You know, I was planning on leaving you here.  Let the mice play a little bit longer.  With a new vest, of course.  Oh, the excitement!  Will I, won’t I, let it all go boom!  I can be soooo changeable.”

“But you’re not going to do that?”  Of course he wasn’t.  He hadn’t intended for this ‘date’ to go this way at all.  He had planned for it, but he hadn’t expected it.  Unless he did know about Mycroft.  Unless this was yet another game.  Sherlock still couldn’t read him.

“Now…now that I’ve had you?”  A hand unexpectedly came in contact with Sherlock’s thigh and he flinched away.  That didn’t dislodge the hand; it just clung on tighter, squeezing until it was almost painful.  “I don’t think I could let you go.”

Sherlock reached under the table, found a joint, and twisted in a very precise manner.  The owner of the hand yelped, jerking away.

“I won’t be going with you.  They won’t allow it.”  Jim ignored him, glaring down at his hand as though it had offended him.  Then suddenly he was standing, and with a startling loud cocophany of shattering china and screaming wood, there wasn’t a table between them.  Moriarty didn’t look angry.  He looked hungry, crossing the small space to where Sherlock still sat, angling himself to the side away from the windows.  Then he had a hand on Sherlock’s  shoulder as he leaned in to whisper in his ear, breath hot and moist against his neck, other hand curling possessively around his torso in some sick parody of an embrace.

“But I do have you.  You’re mine.  And I will have all of you.  I’m going to consume you, Sherlock Holmes.  I will eat your heart.”

Sherlock had no idea how to react to this.  If this were a normal situation he’d just push him away, but this situation was anything but normal and he had no idea how Moriarty would react to that.  Then Moriarty let go, dancing away back to his seat.

“The look on your face!  Don’t worry, darling.  I’m not really gay, I just play it in IT.  Well…I wasn’t.  For you, I might very well make an exception.”

“Who are you, Moriarty?”  Because the question had to be asked.  Moriarty stopped his creepy attempt at fluttering his eyelashes, his eyes suddenly strangely blank, alien, like those of a crocodile.

“Please,” he said, “Do call me Jim.  Just Jim.  And I’m you.  Oh, don’t look like that.  I just mean I fix things.  People ask me to.  Stupid, plain, boring people who want clean hands and clean souls and all the dirt kept in dirty places.  Who do you call when your partner needs murdering?”

“So you kill people.  How…disappointing.  An assassin.”

“No, nonononono NO!” The last came out in a roar before Jim’s voice abruptly softened, almost to a whisper.  “Did I say that?  Nonono, dear Sherlock, just look at my hands.  Clean!  No.  Darling Sherlock, do use your pretty little brain.  I’m a consultant.”

“A consulting criminal.”

“The world’s only.”

“A clean handed assassin then.  Still dull.  You do know we have you now.  Even if you walk away from here; we have your face.  We have your voice.  You’re already caught; we just have to close the cage.”

“What…this old face?  It’s just something I threw on this morning.”  And suddenly he was leaning in again, hand high up Sherlock’s thigh, lips close.  “And as for them…I could take you.  I could slide inside and just own you.  I could make you scream, make you bleed.  And they wouldn’t do ONE. Single. Thing.”

The hand slipped higher, just for a moment, long enough for Sherlock to try and flinch back and find Moriarty’s hand surprising firm and strong on his shoulder, holding him in place.  Then Moriarty was back in his own chair, smiling pleasantly.

“Now,” he instructed, like a teacher addressing an unruly student, “If you’ll just sit quietly for one moment, I think it’s time to upset the board.  Stalemate has gone on long enough, bored, and I have a call to take.”

He put it on speaker and Sherlock listened to it ring with growing trepidation.  He had never been so wrong about anyone in all his life as he had been about Jim from IT, and he had no idea where this was going, what Jim was capable of.  Who he might be dragging into this.  He hoped it was another faceless voice, another bomb, another puzzle.  He knew it wouldn’t be.  Even before the voice answered.  His very being buzzed with nerves as the phone call was picked up, and then there was a shaky voice at the other end.

“H-hello?”

Molly.  They had Molly.

Sherlock didn’t know whether to sag in relief or scream in annoyance.  In the end, he just listened.


	4. Chapter 4

6.

“J-jim?”

“Cupcake!

“You-you just broke up with me!”  Her voice was strained, confused, “And he said it’s a game…we’re playing a game.”  There was a noise in the background, the low murmur of a voice.  Deep, probably male, two low to catch any words.

“Molly, who is with you?” Sherlock demanded.

“Sherlock?  I don’t…what’s going on?” She was startled, distraught, but not to the extent she would be if she had been strapped to a bomb.  Moriarty had changed the rules again.  “He says he’s a friend of Jim’s…I don’t…are we broken up?”

“Terribly sorry, Kitten,” Jim said, “The mean bad Sherlock made me say those nasty things.”  He was staring intently as Sherlock with curious delight, studying him to see how he responded.  For a moment, Sherlock wasn’t sure how to answer.  He considered, briefly, what John told him about breaking news delicately, but it was trying to break news delicately that had gotten them into this situation in the first place.

“Your boyfriend is a master criminal named Moriarty,” he finally decided upon saying.  There was silence at the other end.  Then the low murmur of the male voice again.

“Oh isn’t this fun!” Jim exclaimed, his voice grating harshly as it intruded into Sherlock’s attempt at making out what the other voice said.  “Molly, darling, how do you feel about a threesome?”

“A…what?”

“A three-way,” Jim expanded, his tone that of exasperated school teacher reciting a definition rather than that of seduction, and somehow even creepier for it, “ménage a trois, an act of sexual relations enacted between three participants, just you, me, and our dear friend Sherlock.”

“Are you…” there was a moment of silence, as Molly tried to work out what was happening during which Sherlock clinched his teeth at the tedium of it; if he wasn’t sure it would probably end in her getting hurt, something that was NOT going to happen, he would have just instructed her to end the call.  Finally, after an odd sound that might have been a sob but probably wasn’t because her voice sounded too clear afterwards, she continued.  “Sherlock said…are you a criminal?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” Jim asked, sounding oddly repentant, “I am a terrible boyfriend.”

“Molly, he’s toying with you,” Sherlock announced, unable to take this ridiculous charade any longer, “He’s using you as a hostage to divide the police’s forces in a feeble attempt to escape capture.”

“M..molly?” Jim whimpered suddenly, his frightened voice at complete odds with the grin on his face, “It’s Sherlock…he’s a criminal, Molly, he’s making me say…oh God, I’m sorry, don’t please!”  He slapped his own leg harshly, still grinning manically towards Sherlock.  Then, unexpectedly, he ended the connection.  “Okay, bored now.  Entertain me.  What will you do to keep your girlfriend intact?”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“But she could be.  You care about her.  You came here today to protect her.  Now…oh…”  He picks up his phone again; another text.  Expressions passed over Jim’s face, too swiftly to make sense of.  He was angry…or excited…or pleased…or furious.  Sherlock felt as wrong footed as he had sense this whole thing began.  He couldn’t see Moriarty’s motives; he couldn’t see where this was going to end.  It was exciting.  It was deeply unsettling.  Worst of all, Sherlock had made a mistake.  An error so incredible that he still couldn’t quite see his way out of this hole he had fallen into.  Moriarty was caught, surely he was caught, there was no way he could get out of this.  Moriarty had made mistakes, critical mistakes.  But so had Sherlock.  He didn’t know how this was going to end.  Maybe neither of them did.  Unless…oh…well…unless.

“Strip.”

The command came from Jim, unexpected, scattering Sherlock’s mental attempts to get a handle on the situation and find upper ground.

“Excuse me?” 

“You are going to strip.  Right here, right now.  Slowly.  Scarf first.  Come on, show me your neck.”

“And if I don’t?”

Jim simply looked at him, his eyes too intense but not the slightest bit aroused; this wasn’t about lust at all, it was about power.  Then Jim scooted closer, leaning in, his lips approaching Sherlock’s ear.  Sherlock had to force himself not to jerk away as warm breath ghosted over his skin, a hand resting once more against his leg.  Then Jim whispered, his voice soft, perhaps too soft to be heard by anyone but Sherlock.  Unlikely, but possible, and that realization was enough to make Sherlock understand, as he somehow hadn’t before, exactly how alone he was, how vulnerable.  Surrounded by unseen forces, knowing that his brother was somewhere nearby, no obvious threats, just two men sitting in a café.  He had never felt so exposed.

This wasn’t fun.  This wasn’t a game Sherlock wanted to play.

“And where’s John Watson?” Jim’s whisper fell lightly into his ear, “Where’s your loyal pet?  Did you think I didn’t know about him?  Sherlock Holmes and his loyal blogger.  Fighting crime.  But you can’t be allowed to continue.  You really can’t.”

He was bluffing.  He didn’t have John.  He would have done something more than hint if he had; he’d have him on the phone like Molly.

“Oh no, that can’t be true!” Jim exclaimed in a false high voice, leaning back into his chair again, “Unless…oh my, was this all just a little diversion?”  Then he was back, whispering, “Your landlady is sweet, by the way.  A pity about her hip.”

Sherlock wasn’t going to play.  Not now. Not ever.  He refused to even think that he had ever been interested.  He wasn’t going to play Jim’s games.  He was going to destroy him.

"Well...go on."  Jim was slouching back in his chair again, staring with a wolfish hungry expression that had very little to do with lust.  "Take off the scarf.  And the coat."

It wasn’t giving into Jim’s games, Sherlock told himself, it was biding his time.  It still felt like giving in, when he tossed the scarf to the ground.  When the coat followed, strewn amidst a chaos of rubble.  As though his clothes were worthless ruins, to be discarded.

“Oh yeah,” Jim moaned, legs spread and hand resting at his crotch in a suggestive manner that didn’t remotely match his eyes, “Go on then, shirt now.”

The restaurant was cold.  Its blown out front let in the outside chill.  That was the reason his hands shook when they went to his buttons.  It was that and not the giving in.  Nor the red dots moving from his head, where he only knew the threat from an intellectual standpoint as the reason Moriarty still breathed but couldn’t see it himself, to his chest where he could see the threat dancing like some macabre light display around his heart.

Jim continued to leer at him as the shirt slid away, leaving him pale and bare and trying not to shiver.  Jim looked him up and down in a mocking attempt at lecherous that Sherlock found rather annoying instead of threatening.  Then a hand darted out, latching onto Sherlock’s arm, pulling it forward.  Fingers ghosted gently over old scars, and for the first time since the undressing began, Sherlock actually began to feel exposed.  He repressed a shudder that had nothing to do with the cold.  Then Jim released him.

“Well, go on, let me see you,” Jim ordered, his hand making a twirling motion.  For a moment Sherlock didn’t move.  He didn’t want to perform for Jim, not for his own life or anyone else’s, and certainly not for threats that he couldn’t be sure actually held any substance.  He couldn’t shoot Sherlock, not if he wanted to live.  And he had yet to absolutely prove he had anyone else in his power aside from Molly.

“STAND UP!”  Jim’s face transformed from calm interest to snarling rage in the blink of an eye and Sherlock found himself standing in spite of himself.  He had to stop himself from sitting back down just from pure annoyance at his own instant reaction to the command.  Jim’s face instantly transformed back to calm.  He was still looking expectedly.  “Do you really want to see how far you can push me?” Jim asked calmly, an eyebrow raised, “Do you want to know what happens when this ends?”

Reluctantly, slowly, Sherlock turned where he stood.  The red laser lights still danced, following him as he turned.

“There!  Perfect!” Jim exclaimed when Sherlock had his back exposed to him.  A sudden touch against his skin made him jump but he forced himself to hold himself still, to stare away through a broken window.  He couldn’t see Mycroft’s men.  Watching them…watching him expose himself.  Watching him dance to Moriarty’s command.  Sherlock almost wished he were alone.  All he had of proof that he wasn’t was the flashes of red.

Jim was standing too close.  Sherlock tensed, not from the touches or the cold, but from holding himself back.  He knew how he could move, his elbow _there_ , palm _there_ , knee…use that chair just so, that bit of wood like _that_ …he could destroy Jim.  If they were alone.

They aren’t.  The unknown risks loom too impossibly huge to ignore.  He doesn’t move.

“You do have a history,” Jim whispers, fingers tracing old scars, his voice alight with interest and awe, “Oh, this is precious.”  Then there was heat at his back, warm breath on his neck.  Hands at the button to his trousers.

"Easy, pet.  Just helping you out.  Just pretend I'm Molly!  Or, no...of course.  Pretend I'm John."

Sherlock forced himself to stand still, staring straight ahead where he could just follow the laser lights reflected off a bit of broken glass while his trousers fell down his legs.  When they were gathered about his ankles, he stepped out of them.  There was no reason to give himself a handicap by hobbling his legs, after all.  It was unpleasantly cold, standing with just his pants in the ruins of the café.  Then hands reached for his pants.

He stepped away, turning to face his adversary.  “I think we’ve gone far enough, don’t you?” he asked, taking pleasure in Jim’s surprise.  The surprise briefly turned to annoyance and then to delight.

“Too far for a first date?  My dear, I think you’ve forgotten a few fundamentals.”

“Not forgotten,” Sherlock answered, smiling pleasantly, “I just don’t care.”

Jim delight melted, a glare marring his face.

“Tired of playing already?  Oh well…then I guess it’s game over.”  Jim pulled out his phone.  And then there was an explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this took; I had the first page for ages and then it sort of…refused to develop. And then I saw the second Sherlock Holmes movie and my brain became obsessed with that which makes it ten times harder to write Sherlock fics…but now it is back on track. Hopefully, the next part should come quickly since I know exactly where I’m going now. More or less.


	5. Chapter 5

7.

As far as explosions went, it wasn’t particularly big on the fireworks.  Perhaps a better description might have been a loud noise.

Jim howled, his phone flying out of his hand in a dramatic arch to the ground where it failed to shatter in any spectacular manner.  Jim stared down at his arm in shock, particularly at the dart now imbedded in his wrist.  It was a good shot, somehow finding lodging despite the bony location; Sherlock couldn’t tell from where he stood whether it was capable of piercing the bone or if the shot had really been just that good.  Knowing his brother’s connections and capabilities, probably both.  If it had been a bullet, Moriarty would likely have lost his hand.

“Oh, now, that really isn’t…” Jim managed to get out before his legs buckled.  He crumbled, disappointingly missing the opportunity to bash his head against the chair.

Then, all at once, the café was filled with people.  People wearing uniforms and moving with purpose and efficiency.  There seemed to be something wrong with Sherlock’s sense of time because one moment he was standing alone and freezing cold and the next he was surrounded by people and still cold, and then the next he had been propelled towards an ambulance and wrapped in a warm blanket that didn’t quite manage to eliminate the chill of the evening.  Someone tried to take his hand and he jerked away.

And then his brother was standing in front of him.

“Really, Sherlock, do let them do their job.”

“Where’s John?”

Mycroft hesitated, and something lurched inside Sherlock’s chest.  Then an unknown woman in a uniform approached, pulling Mycroft’s attention, speaking words like ‘sir’ and ‘critical’ and ‘need you’, and no one was telling Sherlock what had happened to John.  Two doctors were hovering now next to a stretcher and clamoring for attention, as though the few scrapes he’d managed to acquire in the explosion were of any importance when John could be anywhere at all that wasn’t right there.

And Sherlock should be demanding Mycroft’s attention, making him tell, but something that felt very similar to fear held him immobile.  Because of that hesitation.  Because as long as he didn’t know, he could rely on what he did know which told him there was a high probability that Jim Moriarty had been bluffing and that all his so-called hostages were perfectly fine.

And Mycroft wasn’t about to tell him otherwise.  And Sherlock still didn’t demand to know.  It felt like standing on a precipice, the chill infusing itself into his bones, gravity pulling him towards the edge, and why did Mycroft look so concerned, and why didn’t he want Sherlock to know the truth?  And why was the world revolving?

“Sir?  Sir, I need you to calm down…”“Sherlock?  What’s wrong with him?”“If you’ll just let me get this on and lie back, sir.”“Heart rate elevated, airways open…sir?”

The voices overlapped and time was getting away from him again and he didn’t need to lie down or be examined and John still wasn’t there and why wasn’t anyone bringing him John?

 **One hour and twenty-eight minutes earlier**

8.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to eat any of this?”  John waved a plate of food in Sherlock’s face.  Sherlock barely registered the intrusion, offering only the bare minimum of his attention to his flatmate.

“On a case.  Thinking.” 

 “No you aren’t; we haven’t gotten the next call yet.  Unless you mean your brothers…” 

“Dull.”

“Then you’ve no reason not to eat.”  John was being annoyingly persistent.  “Come on, this is what Moriarty wants, to wear you down.  Oh, and incidentally, you have that meeting with Molly’s boyfriend.  You don’t want to faint in the middle of your meeting, do you?  Not very intimidating.”

“What?”

“…Jim from IT, café, meeting…your brother is running a background check…”

“Oh, that.  Right.”  Distracted at last, Sherlock waved away the food still hovering in John’s hands under his nose in the vain hope that the smell alone would remind him that he was hungry.  “I suppose I’d best go now then.”

“Want me to go with you?  You know, just to sit in the background, cleaning my gun?”

Sherlock stared at him, confused.  And perhaps just a tad bit too intrigued.  John hastened to disabuse him of the notion that cleaning his gun in a public restaurant might ever be a good idea.

“That wasn’t a serious suggestion and no you can’t take my gun.  That was…never mind.  Just…have a scone while you’re there.  Or even better, a sandwich.  Doctor’s orders.”

9.

“Move the chair off the mark, Jim, and I’ll apply the concussive force to you myself.”

“Relax, Kitten.  Daddy knows what he’s doing.  And I trust your work.  Now, how far can I let my playmate go before it kills him?  Accidents are so messy.  I prefer to kill on purpose.”

“If you’re letting him close enough to feel the blast, there won’t be any guarantees.  But if you do it like I told you, in front of the door, he’ll probably be good for a while.  Jim…”

“Don’t doubt yourself, dear.  I’m sure it will be beautiful.”

“If everything goes to plan, it won’t happen at all.”

“All my plans go to plan.  It just depends on which plan goes through.  Now…tell me the truth.  The blue tie or the red?”

10.

“Sir?  The report on James Scott, IT employee at Bart’s, born April 1, 1976.  All initial enquires check out; the name isn’t in any of our databases.”

Mycroft glanced over the report, wondering whether he should be annoyed.  In all probability, this James Scott was a waste of time and resources; it wouldn’t be the first time his brother had demanded background checks without any basis for suspicion whatsoever.  Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be sure, particularly now with the Bruce-Partington dilemma and a psychotic bomber blowing up chunks of London.  Though it shouldn’t be a priority.  And when nothing turned up, he would make another excursion to Baker Street to remind his brother of the boy who cried wolf.  Not that his brother would listen.

“Sir?  There is one issue we found…it’s probably nothing…there is a reprimand in his file, for a prank he pulled while working…It seems he changed all the home screens in a lab to an off-premise website.  Nothing criminal or illegal, nothing that’s flagged.  Other than that, he seems clean.”

“So I see,” Mycroft answered, automatically scanning down until he came to the report mentioned.  And to almost anyone else, this report would look perfectly harmless. 

“Should we do a more in depth enquire?”

“Full depth enquires, priority one.”

It was probably a waste of resources.  But anyone who felt the need to play a prank using his baby brother’s website merited a closer look.

11.

Oh, Sherlock.  What did that boy do with my kettle?  And I was just getting set to have one of my herbal soothers.  Well, never mind, there’s no time now to fix some; I just hope the cold doesn’t affect my hip too badly.  Perhaps if I hide that horrid skull again, he’ll remember some consideration.  Or I’ll have a talk with John.  It’s so nice that Sherlock found such an understanding boyfriend.  They are so sweet together too.  Perhaps I should bring them back some more of those biscuits they like; not their housekeeper but they could do with some feeding up.

 **One Hour and sixteen minutes earlier**

12.

“Hello, Molly?  It’s John…John Watson…Sherlock’s flat mate.  Yes, that John.  Right…so, I was wondering if you’d mind meeting…no no, I’m not…I have a girlfriend, it’s about..well…I’d rather talk in person.  So are you at Bart’s?  Right…I’ll see you soon.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Now**

13.

Mycroft had no less than six teams in the area, not counting the media liaisons, technical support, and his usual support staff.  Snipers, forensics, security, medical, police, and one very classified team of specialists that wouldn’t be mentioned in his official report.  An explosive vest had been uncovered and defused, and no more explosive devices had been found either by fancy gadgets or specially trained dogs.  The survivors of the initial bomb blast were being tended to and quarantined for further investigation.  Moriarty was in their custody and his phone was being analyzed.  Sherlock was no longer in the clutches of a madman.  The scene was, for all intents and purposes, under control.

Mycroft had never felt so helpless.

His baby brother was lying unconscious on a gurney, surrounded by medical personnel in frantic motion around his body, taking readings and throwing out ominous sounding medical jargon like ‘possible pulmonary contusion’ and ‘acute stress reaction’.

None of the people Mycroft had sent to check on John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, or Molly Hooper had reported back yet.

Everyone else he had in the area was reporting back incessantly.  Mycroft was in charge.  He should be listening and advising and running the operation.

His baby brother was in the back of an ambulance.  They were going to drive away.  He didn’t know what to do.

And then, suddenly, the scene wasn’t secure at all.  There was a commotion of ‘sir, you can’t go through, sir, stop, sir!’ and then highly trained security guards were on the ground and a single man was running directly towards Sherlock, gun in one hand and a young woman dragged behind him with the other.  She looked white with fear.  And there was no time, no resources, nothing Mycroft could do to stop their approach with his brother still lying small and helpless in the ambulance.  The man was determined.

“Hold your fire!”

**Thirty-nine minutes earlier**

14.

“John Watson, do tell my brother to being childish and answer his mobile.”

“…Mycroft?  Sorry, poor connection, I’m travelling…you wanted Sherlock?  I’m not with him.  He’s in a meeting with Molly’s boyfriend.  Er…Molly Hooper, and that bloke I asked you to look up…sorry about that.  But also, not your answering service.”

“…”

“Hello?  Mycroft?”

“…I’m sorry, did you say that my brother is meeting with James Scott?”

“Er…yes?”

15.

“Hello, Molly.  I’m a friend of Jim’s. We’re going to play a game.”

**Twenty-two minutes ago**

16.

There are red dots playing across his baby brother’s hair, over his neck, his back, his chest.  Multiple directions.  And that monster had his hands on him.  Touching him.  Playing with him.  Mycroft was going to tear him limb from limb.  His men moved into position, ready to take the snipers down.

17.

Molly Hooper seemed very confused.  First her boyfriend called and told her he was breaking up and not making much sense.  Then Jim’s friend arrived.  Something about the situation most certainly wasn’t right.

And then there was a knock at the door.

“Molly?  There’s something going on, I can’t stay, but…”

Molly opened the door because Jim’s friend said to, and Jim’s friend was suddenly holding a gun and everything was very wrong, and then John was inside and staring at the man with the gun.

“Oh,” he said, as though men with guns were to be expected, “right then.”

And a very short time after that, John was holding the gun and the man was whimpering on the ground, and Molly had to bring over some hair ribbons because who keeps rope or handcuffs in their office and she couldn’t think of anything else to use.

And then her phone rang again.  It was Jim.  And Sherlock was in danger, and Jim was a psychopath and John was there, telling her to play along while he phoned Lestrade.

And maybe she was a bit in shock, because all she could really understand was that she was going to miss those evenings watching glee.

**Now**

18.

“Hold your fire!” Mycroft shouted again, moving slightly in front of the pair, before lowering his voice into something more cultured.  “John, could you please put down your weapon before my security team decides you are an assassin after all and takes you out?”

“What happened?”  His voice is solid and steel and he doesn’t seem to have heard a word Mycroft said.  His gun is lowered to face the ground, but he makes no move to get rid of it.  His eyes are drinking in the sight of the ambulance where Sherlock’s still form is barely visible through a single open door as they wait for his signal that they are cleared to leave.  The young woman at his side looks lost, confused.

“Sir?” Yet another person approaches him with another report on the situation.  He’s tempted to brush them off, but they are already speaking, and it’s just as well that he hadn’t.  “Sir, Baker Street is cleared and Hudson has been located uninjured.  A man has been apprehended at the location of Hooper’s office, but Hooper and Watson have yet to be found.”

“I’m sure you’ll find them, if you look hard enough,” Mycroft answered amicably, something easing in his chest despite his brother’s situation. 

In the end, the ambulance left.  John Watson went with it.  Mycroft stayed behind.  It made sense to stay behind.  He directed the teams and listened to their reports and basically acted as a proper leader and not like he was torn in two.  Like he wasn’t seeing that creep’s hands on his baby brother’s naked body.  Like he wasn’t seeing Sherlock collapsing back onto the gurney.

Someone told him that they had broken the encryption on Moriarty’s phone.  Someone else told him that Moriarty was awake and ready to be relocated.  Someone else told him the street was clear.  They were all getting ready to move out.

Mycroft acted like a perfect and proper government agent.  Calm and collected.  Right up to the point that he broke their prisoner’s nose.


	7. Chapter 7

19

Mycroft arrived at his brother’s room just as the EKG started to wail an alert, its screen disturbingly empty of any sign of a heartbeat.  The patient being monitored was surprisingly vocal for a man without a pulse.

“I’m fine!  John, you’re a doctor, tell them I’m fine!”

Several people who were called by the alarm pushed past Mycroft into the room with the urgent air of those prepped for action, only to skid to a halt at the sight of their not-dying patient who had managed to unhook himself from the EKG before John could stop him.  Sending Sherlock an exasperated look, a nurse reached over and turned off the machine, silencing it.

“Sorry,” John said for Sherlock, who was glaring defiantly at them.  The other doctor’s look went beyond exasperated and looked ready to give Mycroft’s brother a well deserved scolding, but she somehow managed to contain herself and instead announced that Sherlock’s doctor would be there soon to talk to him.

“My doctor is already here!” Sherlock shouted after them as they left, much less urgently than they had arrived.  None took any notice.

“Well,” Mycroft observed, “That was exciting.”

“Dull,” Sherlock responded, frowning petulantly, “I’m ready to go home.”

“You were in an explosion, Sherlock,” John informed him, a resigned, calm air about his tone that suggested this was not the first time he had said this, “We just have to wait a bit to make sure there aren’t complications.”

“My x-ray was clean.”

“And contusions take time to show up.  You said I was your doctor; I say stay.”

“Dull.  You have news.”  This last bit was addressed so suddenly towards Mycroft that John looked utterly confused and even Mycroft took a moment to realize it was him who was expected to answer.

There were many things Mycroft might have said.  ‘The last time I saw you, you were lying unconscious in an ambulance.  The last time I saw you, you had been stripped almost naked by a madman and I had to watch it all and could do nothing.  Just let me look at you, just for a moment, alive and breathing and alert.  You are my brother and I care about you.’

What he actually said was, “Moriarty escaped.”

Sherlock stared at him, an odd expression upon his face.  Perhaps interest, perhaps delight, perhaps anger and fear.  Perhaps it was none of these things.  For all Mycroft liked to believe he could read his brother like a book, there had always been corners that Sherlock kept hidden, possibly even from himself.

John was easier to read.  Shock.  Anger.  A hint of betrayal.  His stance screamed military rather than doctor in that moment.

“What?” he sputtered while Sherlock leaned back, his thoughts racing silently across his eyes, “How?”

“We are looking into that.  You will be under guard, of course.”

“I don’t need more of your nannying, Mycroft!” Sherlock exploded at that, “They’ll get in the way.  I can take care of myself.”

“And the doctor?”

John sputtered indignantly, saying something about Afghanistan and being able to take care of himself.  Sherlock was silent, his expression suddenly closed though the anger still glinted from the corners of his eyes.

“And your landlady?” Mycroft continued, his voice soft, “Your associate Miss Hooper?  DI Lestrade?”

“Shut up.”  Then Sherlock rolled over, putting his back to him.  Significantly, he said nothing about Mycroft calling off his guard.  They both knew that meant it would be allowed.  With a patient sigh, Mycroft reached out a hand and put it on his brother’s shoulder.  The body beneath his hand tensed, but the gesture was allowed.

“Do get well, Sherlock.”  And then, with a brief nod towards John, he was on his way.  There was still a psychopathic crime lord to catch and he trusted that his brother was in good hands.

The End

20

Epilog

“And which plan was this, Jim?  The plan to get yourself imprisoned?  What happened to using the vest?”

“Sorry, pet, I know how you hate rescue missions.  But it was all to the best.  Much better than that first plan, explosions and death?  Boring!  No, no, no, no!  My way was much better.  I finally got to lay my eyes on Holmes.  Right in the eyes.

“And?  Hold still, now, before you have a new eyebrow piercing.  No, Jim, no, a piercing is not the look you want.  Just…there.  You did get yourself beat up.  And for what?  To get a close up look of Mr. Holmes’s fist?

“His soul, sweetheart, his soul.  Chinks and stress.  Cracks in the ice.”

“You are insane.”

“You say that quite fondly.  Don’t look so worried, pet.  I’m fine.  You’re fine.  I didn’t even break my toys.  Yet.”

“What were you looking for?  A weakness?  Mycroft Holmes has no weaknesses.”

“Well,” Moriarty murmured, an excited, mad gleam in his eye as he moved his hand to gently prod at the damaged tissue around his nose, “We know he has one.”

The End. 


End file.
